


The Return of the Gobblewonker

by scribefindegil



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Family Bonding, Fluff, Gen, Just dorks being dorks, monster hunting, nebulously post-canon, the entire rest of the family being ridiculous in the background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 20:32:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8860003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribefindegil/pseuds/scribefindegil
Summary: After an entire summer of investigating the paranormal, Dipper *still* can't win that monster photo contest. Stan offers to help him out. It . . . does not go as planned.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Fluffstravaganza commission for transbirdetta, who wanted some Stan and Dipper bonding!

“Braaaaains!”

Stan froze at the bottom of the stairs, one hand tightening instinctively around his coffee mug and the other curling into a fist. He cursed inwardly. Which one of them had raised the dead _this_ time? One of the nerds most likely, although he wouldn’t entirely put it past Mabel to do it as an excuse for family bonding.

All right. He’d done this before. Admittedly, he hadn’t been in his underwear then, but there was nothing to be done about that now. He could probably take them by surprise as he entered the kitchen, which would buy him enough time to grab a blunt (or not-so-blunt, depending) implement off the wall. Then grab the kids and either queue up another karaoke song or break out the industrial-sized formaldehyde jug.

Really, the whole thing was just a nuisance.

He jumped into the doorway with a shout and all four residents of the kitchen flinched away from him and squeaked. Mabel and her two friends were clustered around the counter, holding bowls and spoons and a rolling pin, but not like they were weapons. Okay, Grenda was holding the rolling pin like a weapon, but that was just her. Dipper was seated at the table. All of them were staring up at Stan, wide-eyed. The horrific gray-green visages that he’d been expecting failed to materialize. He looked around in confusion.

“Oh, hey Grunkle Stan!” said Mabel. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I . . .” Stan relaxed slightly, although he kept his grip on the mug. “I thought I heard something.”

Understanding spread across Mabel’s face. “Oooooh! Candy and Grenda and I were just playing at being the Zombies of Domesticity! Sorry if we confused you!”

“Brains brains-brains brains!” said Grenda happily.

“She says she’s sorry, too!” Mabel translated.

“Uh . . . don’t mention it.”

Stan sat down at the table and surreptitiously double-checked everyone’s skin tone and whether they had any new injuries. Once he was satisfied, he stood up and snatched the coffee pot before returning to his seat.

The girls looked like they were making cookies.

“Brain brains braaaaains, brains!” said Mabel. Candy handed her the flour.

“Brains brains!”

“Brains brains-brains!”

Stan looked across the table at Dipper, who hadn’t said anything yet. The boy was glaring at one of those cheapo paranormal magazines he was always flipping through.

“How long have they been doing this?” Stan asked, jerking his finger at the display behind them.

Dipper sighed. “All day. At least it means there’s less screaming than usual.”

He stabbed at his bowl of cereal with his spoon. It didn’t do much.

“Yeesh.” Stan shook his head. “No wonder you look like such a grump monster.”

‘Grump monster’ was a Mabel-ism, a fact Stan was immediately reminded of when his niece dropped the measuring cups on the counter and flounced over to hug him.

“Oh, it’s not that,” Dipper said. “Honestly you kind of get used to it after a while. It’s better than the all-singing days.”

Stan ruffled Mabel’s hair and released her, sighing ruefully at the dusting of flour and glitter she’d left in her wake. “Then why the long face? Did the goat eat one of your nerd books again? Afraid someone’s gonna make you take a bath?”

Dipper kept poking angrily at his cereal. “It’s nothing.”

“Fine.”

Stan made a move to stand up, but his butt was barely off the chair when Dipper gave one of his angry little kitten sighs and said, “It’s just that—”

A-ha. Stan sat back down, grinning quietly to himself.

“—I learned so much this summer! I saw so many amazing things! But when I try to show people, no one takes me seriously.”

“Hmm.” Stan took a sip of his coffee. “So you wanna be taken seriously, huh? I know just the thing!”

Dipper sighed. “I'm not sure this is the kind of problem I want to solve with violence. Or larceny.”

“Welp, in that case I've got nothing.”

Dipper slid the magazine across the table. It was open to that monster photo contest he’d been so gung-ho about at the beginning of the summer. Not the same one, as far as Stan could tell; this was a grainy, blurry photo of something with wings instead of a grainy, blurry photo of something with horns.

“I thought I was getting pretty good at monster photography,” said Dipper morosely. “I got a really good one of that pterodactyl once I remembered that you can make more than one print from a negative. I used the camera to avoid the terrifying veiny eyes of that woman with the string cheese hair who wanted to turn everyone to stone—what was her name again?”

“Brains-brains-brains-brains!”

“Right, Gorgonzola. Thanks, Mabel. I even did a photoshoot with the Multibear and that rogue Spellocopter. But every time I post a picture on the conspiracy boards they all just laugh at me, and when I send my real monster photos in to these contests, they choose something like _that_ instead.”

Stan looked more closely at the photo. Behind all the smoke it was pretty obvious that it was just a fake bat. Not even a good one. In fact, he was nearly certain that it was the “Deluxe Halloween Spooky Bat With Light-Up Eyes” prop from the Fright Co. catalog that he got every year. He didn’t buy much from them—monsters were cheaper when you taxidermied them yourself out of roadkill—but it was something to read that wasn’t Ford's Journal or a physics textbook, so they always ended up well-thumbed.

There was a pile of the pictures that Dipper had taken hidden under the magazine. Stan flipped through them. They were all crisp and in-focus and well-composed, showing off the monsters in their natural surroundings.

Stan laughed. “Well, there’s your problem, kid! You’re too good!”

Dipper blinked at him with the wide-eyed, bewildered expression that reminded Stan so much of his brother. “Thanks? Wait, what are you talking about?”

Stan swung the other chair out and sat down, pulling the magazine between him and Dipper.

“Look at this,” he said, jabbing a finger at last month’s winning entry. “Ya see? All spooky and foggy and grainy. That’s what the people want their monster photos to look like! Gives ‘em that air of mystery, you know? They don’t read these paranormal magazines or come to the Mystery Shack for answers. They wanna leave with less certainty about the world than when they arrived! Also less money. That’s important.”

Dipper crossed his arms and glared. “Is that why all your attractions are fake?”

Stan rolled his eyes. “Look, kid, let me tell you a secret. When I started this whole thing up, at least half the exhibits were real stuff I’d cribbed from Ford’s research or the woods. People hated ‘em. That’s why I switched over to pun-based taxidermy! Way more popular, plus very little chance that they’ll come alive mid-tour and try to eat you.”

Dipper pushed his chair back hard enough that it smacked into the wall and started pacing back and forth across the kitchen, waving his arms. Stan reached across and snagged his abandoned cereal bowl. Wouldn’t want any food going to waste, now would he?

“But why are people like that?” Dipper squawked. “Why don’t they want to know the truth?”

The more upset Dipper got the more his voice sounded like a flock of squeaky rubber ducks. Stan hid his smile behind a spoonful of soggy marshmallow flakes. He wasn’t much of one to talk given that his own voice sounded like he’d just gargled a gravel-and-vinegar cocktail, but what was the point of life if you couldn’t look past your own grossness and ridiculousness to laugh at it in other people?

“Cause people are idiots,” said Stan. “The quicker you accept that, the happier you’ll be. Trust me.”

“But Grunkle Stan!”

Stan skimmed over the submission guidelines. Yep, there it was. Some things never changed. “Plus those bozos keep the rights to everything they print, so if you did win with one of these you wouldn’t be able to reuse it when your ghost-hunting show gets famous. If you wanna win the contest just take a bad picture of the Sascrotch or something.”

“Wait, what?” Dipper snatched the magazine back and stared furiously at the fine print. “That’s ridiculous!”

His mouth opened like he was about to keep ranting but then, suddenly, he froze, lowering the magazine and staring at Stan with huge round eyes.

“. . . _When_ my ghost-hunting show gets famous?”

Stan shrugged and scratched the back of his neck. “Or. You know. If.”

“No, you said it!” Dipper was grinning and shaking his finger. Stan gulped down the rest of the stolen cereal so he didn’t have to look at the kid. “No take-backs!”

“Yeah, well . . . you’ve still got a lot to learn. I mean . . .” Stan spread the stack of photos across the table. “This is all well and good if you wanna do wildlife photography, but a ghost show’s gotta scare people, and for that you need pizazz!”

“Oh yeah?” Dipper looked back down at the magazine in his hands. “You . . . think you can help me practice by scamming these jerks out of a thousand dollars?”

“Kid,” said Stan, putting a hand over his heart, “It would be my pleasure.”

*

A heavy mist was forming above Gravity Falls Lake, pooling above the water like syrup on a pancake. No, that wasn’t right. Like a monster’s breath. Yeah. Better.

Dipper took care not to jostle the camera around his neck as he trotted after his uncle. Stan had suggested just digging out one of the Shack's old exhibits, but Dipper was adamant that if they were going to fake a monster photo it should at least be a scary fake monster photo. Not one made of balding taxidermy and loose glitter.

So here they were, trekking out to where the remains of McGucket’s Gobbelwonker lay sprawled on the shore of the lake. He could remember when that robot had been the most terrifying thing he’d seen in his life. It sure hadn’t held that title for long.

Dipper shivered, the cold night air raising goosebumps on his arms. Maybe he should have worn something heavier than his vest. At least they weren’t going to be out here for long; propping up an abandoned robot’s head so it looked ominous would take much less time than lying in wait for a real anomaly.

“Hey!” said Stan. “We’re here!”

Huh. That was sooner than he’d been expecting. They must have walked more quickly than he’d thought. Or else he’d been zoning out and hadn’t realized how far they’d gone. Or else there was some creature or phenomenon nearby that created barely perceptible folds in time, or maybe geography. It could be a defense mechanism to stop people from finding it, or a technique for luring people away from their paths!

But probably he just hadn’t been paying attention.

The Gobbelwonker robot was lying with its neck looped out of the lake and its body submerged. It was a shame that they couldn’t get it in working order—a photo of it swimming in the lake would be ideal—but McGucket was trying really hard to go cold turkey on the giant death robots so they had quietly vetoed that option.

Dipper slapped at an errant mosquito that was buzzing around his head. When Grunkle Stan turned the light towards him he saw a set of raised red letters on his arm.

“NUR?” Dipper read. What on earth did they mean by that?

“Almost ready!” Stan called. He stepped over the Gobbelwonker’s neck to where its head was draped across the top of its body. Just needed to get the head in frame and put the glow-in-the-dark paint they’d brought on its eyes. Dipper stepped back, squinting through the camera lens. He’d try a few different settings—they wanted it to look grainy anyway, so visibility wasn’t too much of a problem . . .

“What did Old Man—Fiddleford use for this skin, anyway?” Stan asked. “It feels so leathery! I know that dinosaur mine attraction fell through, but maybe Soos can get old Fiddleford to make him a dino out of this. You know, one that looks stuffed until it roars and makes everyone scream.”

“I don’t know—must be algae,” said Dipper. “It’s just made of metal.”

Stan grabbed the Gobbelwonker’s head by its ear fins and yanked it around to face Dipper.

“Nah, can’t be,” he said. “It’s got, like, this squishy, leathery . . . oh.”

“Oh,” Dipper repeated, as the extremely large, extremely not robotic eyes of the creature in front of him blinked open. The slitted pupils looked around muzzily for a moment before focusing directly on him. The eyes narrowed.

Dipper swallowed. He raised his camera with trembling fingers. Maybe the flash would distract it—

Suddenly his vision shifted as Grunkle Stan lifted him bodily off the ground, throwing him over his shoulder as he ran. Dipper did his best to keep his grip on the camera as he bounced on Stan's shoulder, grateful that he'd sprung for the extra-strength neck strap.

The Gobbelwonker hissed and snapped at them, its mouth just a few feet away.

“Run run run!” Dipper yelped.

“What do you think I'm doing, kid?” Stan growled, but Dipper could feel him pick up the pace. He was surprisingly fast for an old man, but the monster's neck was long and its mouth was getting closer . . . and closer . . .

The Gobbelwonker drew back just long enough to bunch its legs and tail under it, and then it lunged forward, its enormous bulk sliding easily through the mud and shallow water. Its head shot forward and its mouth opened wide. All Dipper could see was teeth.

He screamed.

Suddenly, there was a bright flash as the camera clicked. At the same time Stan dove forward, tossing Dipper in front of him. The Gobbelwonker’s mouth closed on thin air. It made a noise like—well, Dipper wasn’t sure what it was like, but to his relief at least it didn’t sound like a beaver with a chainsaw—and reared back, vanishing into the lake with a splash.

Dipper lay on his back in the mud, staring blankly upwards. He still had his camera. That was good. He hadn’t been turned into a monster’s lunch. That was good too.

“Grunkle Stan?” he called.

A loud groan emerged from the mud nearer to the shore. Slowly, Grunkle Stan also emerged.

“You were right,” Dipper said. “Next time I’ll just use the Sascrotch.”

He let his head fall back to the ground with a squelch.

*

“Now Stanford, you’ve got to be pullin’ my leg!”

“No, no!” Ford waved his hands at his friend, who was grinning at him over a mug of Mabel’s hot chocolate. “Utterly serious! That’s one thing I discovered about the multiverse; the more absurd and infuriating a world is, the more likely I was to run into it. I’ve told you about the M Dimension, haven’t I?”

“Only a few dozen times, old friend,” Fiddleford laughed. He dunked one of the brain-shaped cookies the girls had made into his cocoa.

“And yet you’re still skeptical of the Pastry Dimension! Honestly, I—Oh my. What happened to you two?”

Ford had looked up when the kitchen door banged open, expecting to see the girls back from playing flashlight tag, but instead he was greeted with the sight of his brother and his great-nephew covered from head to toe in mud and algae. The only reason he could tell that it wasn’t a pair of rampaging lake monsters barging into his—their—the Shack’s kitchen was that Stan had taken his glasses off and Dipper was carrying his hat and a camera, so Ford could make out small patches of familiar skin and hair amidst the dirt.

The two apparitions looked at each other.

“. . . It’s a long story,” said Stan.

“Yeah,” Dipper agreed. “But, um, McGucket. About your lake monster robot . . . Was it . . . inspired by anything?”

Fiddleford looked up at the ceiling and bounced his knee, humming quietly to himself the way he always did when he was remembering. It took him a while, but then his eyes lit up and he exclaimed, “Yes, I reckon it was! There was this old slithery critter in the lake tried to gobble me up a couple a times. I tried forgettin’ it but I guess the fiddle-danged idea of it stuck around!”

“. . . Ah,” said Dipper.

“Well,” agreed Stan. “I guess that explains some things.”

They stood staring morosely at the far wall. Fiddleford, who’d been beaming at successfully remembering the thing, began to look guilty.

“Why don’t the two of you have some cookies!” Ford suggested, leaping up from his chair and bustling over to the counter. He got the two of them seated—the furniture in the Shack had seen much worse than mud; there was no point in fretting over that—and bustled around heating up milk for hot chocolate and choosing the cookies with the largest amount of pink cream-cheese frosting.

Stan patted Dipper’s shoulder.

“Hey,” he said. “I’m sorry you didn’t get your picture.”

Dipper shrugged. “And I’m sorry I almost got us eaten by a terrifying lake monster.”

“Eh.” Stan leaned back in his chair and took a large bite out of a cookie. “That’s pretty much a regular day around here. Don’t sweat it.”

*

Stan had nearly forgotten about the Gobbelwonker incident by the time they got the care package. All the times they’d nearly been eaten by horrific monsters tended to blur into each other in retrospect.

The magazine was tucked under the newest shipment of sweaters and books and exuberant letters, and Stan passed it over at first. It wasn’t the first time Dipper had asked Ford to take a look at some article in a book or on a conspiracy website in case there was a real problem hidden in among all the junk. But when Ford picked the slender pamphlet up, the note that fluttered out was addressed to Stan.

“Hey Grunkle Stan,” it read in shaky ballpoint letters. “Turns out I was right: people are interested in real monsters! Turns out you were right, too. They only like terrible photos.”

Stan flipped through the magazine until he saw the page that had been circled in blue. It was the monster photo contest. At first glance, the last month’s winner was a blurry thing with teeth. As Stan stared at it more closely, he could make out the shape of the Gobbelwonker’s head, its eyes glowing as it lunged toward the camera. Most of the photo showed the inside of its mouth, a dark abyss with glinting fangs curling into the frame.

At the bottom of the page was another note. “I’m keeping up with the wildlife photography,” Dipper had written, “But for scaring-people shots maybe you should just teach me taxidermy.”

 


End file.
